


Back to Middle-earth 2009 ficlets

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2009-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.<br/><br/>New chapter is chapter 12: "River of Dreams."<br/><br/>Truly, all ficlets written have been uploaded. Thanks to Dawn, Oshun, Rhapsody, and others for the prompts and fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coming of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Day one prompt: We are learning to make a fire.

Summary: Oh brave new world, that needs such Fire in it...

* * *

  
Upon the hill over the old haven, a grey figure sits and stares at the sea. Earth, seas, sky, all awash in the color of sunset. Strange how the things of the world glow, how sharp they are and weighty, overwhelming – and yet mute. Their new radiance is deceptive – hides the nature of things, and their solidity is a resistance. Things do not open to will so readily as once they did, do not surrender their being – 'tis a world bright with modesty and freighted with secrets.

And yet for all that, it is less shy of him than of the Children, and he lays a palm upon the earth, lets the green, green grass slide through knobby, gnarled fingers, and between skin – real skin – and the rough-grained sand, there is a charge, a pulse that once he could have grasped in a moment. Now he simply feels it, in the speeding of his heart that settles then into time with that beat. Nay, he is not wholly veiled in this flesh. It responds to what is – and what is, is not wholly immune to his will, either.

He shuts his eyes a moment, then opens them to mere slits, staring at the grass before him a long moment, ere he reaches out a hand to touch just the tip of one blade, and he Speaks the Word.

Flame bursts into being, like a candle on a strange green wick.

Olórin feels a smile pass over bearded lips – unfamiliar feeling that suffuses the welcome sense of harmony that he has of late missed so. He looks to the sky, with the Kindler's stars shining in it, and is content. 'Tis indeed a strange new world that makes him stranger to himself, and the little flame dancing on its stalk is but a pale expression of the originary Flame, but no matter. He is here, in all obedience, and he is learning to make fire...  



	2. All She Wants To Do Is Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 3 prompt: Your happiest moment in the past two days - write something connected to it.

Written because: every girl loves to twirl...

Cue Don Henley, and go...

* * *

  
When she was a girl, she used to take the long way round Aldburg's ways, just because she could skip-hop her way down a lane a little longer. The Éorlingas were a musical people – they were never without the means for a song, and she would hum as she went, and step to the time, and if no one was around, spin and twirl down the walk.

She learned all the maids' dances that were danced in the halls as quick as any would teach them, and when her tutors had exhausted their knowledge, she learned the ones that the kitchen girls knew, and the ferrier's wife – the ones that never saw the inside of a hall. Those she liked very well, for they were closest to the Spring dances that happened outside, where there was always the chance that one could legitimately kick dust at one's partner. All part of the game of it, to get away with it with grace, and it kept one quite literally on one's toes.

Then there were the boys' dances – the ones they learned from the Riders and that they practiced jealously amongst themselves. Of course she'd badgered Éomer into teaching her. It had taken pleas and bribery and finally blackmail, but her pig-headed brother had relented at last to save his dignity, though he'd sworn her to silent stillness.

"It is a _sword dance_ , Éowyn – 'tis not for lasses, and the others wouldn't like it if they knew I taught you aught," he'd warned, then added, with all the arrogance of his thirteen years at the time: "You likely can't do it anyway, in skirts."

She'd made him pay for that one, once he'd actually taught her, that is. And she could too do it in skirts, thank you very much, and gave him a stinging swat on the calf with them on one of the passes, just because she could.

It has been some time since last she danced – misfortune and strife and the king's failing health and Wormtongue – Wormtongue above all – had leached all song from Edoras. She has been through war and despair, and felt the whole future fold itself up and fall away, and all her strength with it. But she loves to dance – loves to feel the air about her, and the song move through her, move with her, move _her_ , and open the world, and it _is_ a wedding tonight...

So when the Rohirrim among the guests call for a dance – one of the Spring dances, at that – she seizes on the chance like a starveling on the offer of a meal. Turning to Faramir, she asks, "Does my lord know this dance?"

Faramir looks with some doubt at the dancers – mostly soldiers – ranging themselves in their lines. "I do not believe so..."

"Would my lord then care to learn?"

There is only one right answer to this question, and he fortunately has the wit to give it, and with grace. Smiling at her smiling at him, he offers her his arm – and is swept away.  



	3. Counting Costs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day five: Regret.

This story tags off of "Shield Man," which Isabeau wrote for B2MEM09 prompt 2: Danger. Isabeau has provided her own aftermath story to "Shield Man," "Bitter Victory." Obsessed minds apparently think alike...

* * *

  
"Andra! _Andra!_ "

Imrahil cursed, clutching his own shoulder, which burned like the very sun had come to light upon it, as his vision blurred. _Never even felt it go in,_ he thought, dully, and laughed a little. _Well, I'm feeling it now!_ Some part of him knew the signs, and knew very well he was verging on shock himself. That was... bad. He couldn't afford it; a captain could never afford it, because a captain had his crew to think of, and after so terrible a battle, they needed him.

At the moment, however, he could do no more than blink dumbly and bleed on his oath-brother, as he leaned on the heel of the hand he had pressed just above the wound that had brought Andrahar down. He could not even tell whether the pressure helped – there was _so_ much blood. Andrahar's trouser leg was soaked with it, and so was the deck. He thought briefly about trying to strip his belt off to make a tourniquet, but was afraid of his own clumsiness and sweaty palms botching the matter, taking too long, and Andrahar just bleeding out while he fumbled about. He needed a healer, and glanced round the deck once more, seeking one, even as he murmured:

"Hold with me, Andra – bide awhile, help is coming."

"My lord?" Imrahil started at the voice, and squinted into the sun to find the ship's healer, Uinendur, suddenly at his side, a worried Swan Knight hovering just behind him. But when he reached for Imrahil, frowning at the shoulder wound, Imrahil irritably shrugged him off.

"Never mind that, help me with Andra!"

Uinendur bit his lip, but nodded, quickly surveying the situation, and his frown deepened. Fortunately, despite this being but his second tour of duty on a warship, his hands were steady, which meant he could put the tourniquet in place. And as he unrolled his surgeon's kit, he said briskly, "I need a little room, my lord. And you need to have your shoulder seen to – Falanmir, if you would?"

"Aye, sir." Falanmir, whom Andrahar had insisted on including in Imrahil's escort of Swan Knights just because he had a definite talent for leechcraft, came and offered his Prince a hand, but Imrahil shook his head, instead sitting down heavily beside his friend.

"I'll do well enough here," he told him, even as he eased Andrahar's head into his lap, soothing him with his good hand, heedless of the fact that he was getting blood in the other's hair, feeling the need to do _something_ , at least, even while knowing very well he could not possibly do much.

"As you wish, my lord," Falanmir replied, and swiftly began cutting Imrahil's shirt free so he could examine the injury. And:

"Talk to me, Falanmir. What is our situation?" the prince asked, tiredly, and braced himself, deciding it would be best, or at least efficient, to face all his pains at once.

"We've been better, I fear," the knight murmured. "Are you certain you wish to he – "

"Yes," Imrahil cut him off. "Tell me – 'twill keep my mind off other things." At that, Falanmir simply nodded sympathetically, and as he prodded and cleaned and bandaged, he gave such report as he could of _Olwen_ 's status, which was every bit as bad as Imrahil had feared, though she was still afloat. Her crew, though much diminished, was still standing, which was more than could be said for the majority of the Haradrim. Being well-trained, there was little fuss over after-action tasks: Imrahil's men knew their business, and they got on about it without needing much in the way of prompting or oversight.

Which was fortunate, because at the moment, their captain could just barely see past the haze of pain, certainly not far enough to oversee anyone. But he gritted his teeth and endured, because as unpleasant as it was to have Falanmir poking about in an open wound with tweezers to pull out bits of cloth and leather that had got jammed into the wound before cleaning and binding it, he liked less the look on Uinendur's face, as he cleaned and stitched, and stitched, and stitched... _Valar, he'll put a whole flock's worth of catgut in there!_ Imrahil thought.

But more worrying than even Uinendur's expression was Andrahar's stillness. Imrahil had seen his oath-brother come to full wakefulness from a sound rest without warning or even any obvious reason; it was a peculiarity of his, born of hard-learned lessons that had been burned into him in Umbar's backstreets. The one lapse in that habit Imrahil could remember had been when they had both been nineteen, after that unhappy incident in the brothel, when Andrahar had been attacked by his fellow esquires in an outburst of spite. In pain, exhausted, and often under the influence of whatever concoction Kendrion had given him, he'd been slow to rouse then – or slower, anyway.

But despite the chaos of the decks, and Uinendur's painful attentions, Andrahar did not stir in the slightest. He was not asleep, he was simply unconscious: whatever will or awareness that ordinarily stayed with him, that kept him ever somehow in touch with the world around him, had fled and left no trace. His lips were pale, and his color was not good – a bloodless, dull hue beneath the sheen of sweat. And Imrahil was all too well aware it'd been his orders that had brought his friend to this bad pass.

Imrahil swallowed hard, shut his eyes, and suddenly, the last thing he wanted to hear was Falanmir's voice, talking of the need to decide about the prize, and how to hold the few remaining prisoners. He'd no desire to hear about any of it, least of all to deal with it. _Fire the hull and be done with it all!_ impatience snarled, but he bit his tongue. For he had begun this thing, and if he could not undo that beginning, he owed it to his crew to see it carried through properly to the end.

And so he lent an ear to Falanmir's solicitous report, forcing himself to consider their collective course. But his eyes went to Andrahar and did not stray, and beneath all the flow of captainly concerns, fear ran in a riptide. And so like a midnight charm, he chanted his silent plea:

_Just hold with me, Andra! Please just hold! Just hold!_


	4. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Days 6 and 7 prompts together: song as expressing the inexpressible, and trees talking to you. 

* * *

  
This, Sam thought, was without doubt a very foolish idea. His gaffer would've said so, in not so many words, and even Merry might have said it, though he suspected Merry would've come along anyway. That was a Brandybuck for you, and in any case, what they'd seen out yonder – well, it was still foolish, but it was hard to make it measure to other things for dangerous.

Pippin, though, he probably could make it measure, which was why Sam hadn't asked him or Merry, since telling Merry meant probably telling Pippin. And he didn't want to trouble Mr. Frodo, who had enough cares, and there was definitely no reason to tell Rosie. Which meant he hadn't told a single living soul, in fact.

But here he was, standing before the gate in the Hedge and wondering if he would be back for supper at Crickhollow or not. And what would happen if he were not. _No good_ , he thought, and drawing a deep breath, plunged through gate, clutching his little gift close.

He'd been all over the Shire of late, pulling dead stumps, planting new seeds – making a garden fit to match the Lady's gift to him. Such wanton destruction had left him tearful sometimes, and mad others, and he did his sowing with a vengeance, as might be said. Old Saruman and his Ruffians and all their works had to be rooted out, one and all, like weeds – only way to properly repay them, in his mind, to leave nothing they'd done untouched. One hobbit could not repair all things, but he'd done as much as one hobbit possibly could. And when he could do no more, he'd thrown his little patch of Lórien into the air and the care of the winds for the Shire's rebirth.

A few little grains, though, had clung to the sides of the box, refusing the winds, and leaving him with a puzzle. What to do with them?

He could've used them all on Bag End and the New Row and made Rosie a garden the likes of which few had ever known in the world, outside of the elven lands. But his own mood and memories of all the horror of the Quest had set him thinking – thinking that maybe, just maybe, there were others who deserved a reckoning. Deserved maybe something like an "I'm sorry", because really, who was to say what the real matter had been, all those years ago? Treebeard's old eyes stuck in his mind, and he remembered walking with Merry and Pippin around Isengard, in amid all the trees, listening to them recall – in that scattered, quiet way of folk who didn't need to say a lot to get a lot said – everything that'd happened there and in Treebeard's forest. And he remembered the sudden, eerie feeling that'd come over him, as if the trees were bending in to listen, and the wind in their branches had sounded like a lament, as if they, too, were mourning in the remembering, using Merry and Pippin to get their sighs out.

The trees of the Old Forest had been like that, but angrier – wrathfuler, as he thought it. They were remembering something, and who knew what? Hobbits had come late to this part of the world, something everyone knew, but nobody thought about it. They'd found the land empty of all, save trees. Who counts trees, though?

The faint little path that issued from the Hedge-gate had long since given up, and Sam, winding his way amid the great, dark trunks of the trees, kept an eye on the light in the sky, and steered as nearly northeast as he could. The hairs on his arms were all astand, and he had that gooseflesh feeling down his back and neck, but the air was still. No one was whispering, but he knew he was watched. Did they remember him? he wondered. Could the trees of the Old Forest remember one particular hobbit, or did they see only hobbit-shape?

_Like them Black Riders_ , the horrible thought occurred to him, and made him shiver. _Seein' only our shadow shapes in their minds._

He almost gave up right then, truth be told. If there were one thing not to think of in the Old Forest, it was Black Riders. But he recalled his purpose, gathered his courage, and determined himself to go "just a little farther", and hope that he would come upon his aim.

And in fact, as luck would have it, he did. Of a sudden, the forest opened before him, and he was faced with the ring of trees about the Bonfire Glade. To Sam's eyes, not a thing, not a single stalk, had changed – time had flowed right around the little clearing and left every nettle and hemlock untouched, if not, indeed, frozen. It struck him as a desperate holding forth, for some reason – like a scar that would not be permitted to fade.

Sam stood there in the center of the clearing, wavering as he looked about. Maybe he shouldn't have come, but...

"Late's better than never, and an apology's always timely," he muttered, repeating the words his gaffer had been so fond of. So he opened Galadriel's box to the last few gleaming grains of earth, and ran a finger about to collect them. Then he went about the old burn-mark ring and, as near as he could, laid one grain at all the quarters of the compass, before going to the center of the glade to leave the last two clinging granules. He gave the earth a little pat and straightened up.

The air was as thick as before, and thicker, and he'd the sense of many more eyes, if eyes they were, peering at him. Was it his imagination or did he hear something moving in the earth, like a hundred knobby roots crawling forward unseen to taste or touch or whatever it was trees did to soil? A scratchy, brambly silence filled the air, and Sam shook himself. _Finish the job, my lad!_

"Just to say," Sam said, and coughed to clear and settle his voice. "Just to say, it's not been so neighborly between us and you. Don't know the why of it – just hasn't been, but maybe we know better now what it's been like out here ever since... things... happened. Nobody deserves that. Thought, ah, thought maybe this would help and show our, er, regards. Er..."

Still nothing, and Sam, never one for fine speeches and many words, stumbled to an awkward halt. After several moments standing there, helplessly, he sighed, and, feeling just a little foolish, made the trees a deep, sweeping bow, and then retreated as gracefully as possible.

The forest was still thick and dark as he made his way back – hopefully! – towards the gate in the Hedge. And within some little while, perhaps a quarter hour, he could see it, that dark line between the trees' trunks, and he sighed with relief, speeding up a bit.

But as he got within view of the tunnel, something brushed his shoulder. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, for it wasn't wind, and it was no spider – he reached up and hesitantly felt at the great sweep of moss that draped there, then glanced up at the tree from which it hung. The tree did not move.

Sam, after a moment, cautiously stepped out from under its mossy fingers, and said, "Beg your pardon," and bowed again, and continued on his way. But as he walked, he felt many a strange caress against his skin, as it seemed the trees somehow, without him seeing it, _grew closer_ , so as to brush up against him with their leaves and ivy and moss. Not to grasp or cling, but they were simply _there_. It made for a ticklish path, but Sam didn't complain of it, and he was careful not to break any branches or twigs or leaves off as he went.

At length, he reached the tunnel and passed within its sheltering thicket, and then out into the bright sunny lanes of the Shire. There he paused and closed his eyes, exhaling with relief. His skin still tingled with sensation, and he had a feeling he was covered in dust and strange pollen, but he'd made it in and out, and the thing was done.

_Looks like I'll be back for suppe_ r, he thought, and whistling, headed down the road for Crickhollow.

That evening, he and Merry and Pippin sat outside and supped, and chatted, and watched the sun go down, and the stars come out.

"Will you look at that," Merry said, marveling at the fiery color, and the winking bright Evenstar gleaming in it all.

"And feel that wind!" Pippin added. For of a sudden, a cool breeze came calling, and such a breeze! Not a gale or a gust, but a steady blowing, and yet, as the hobbits sat there, they became aware of a strangeness to it – it was as if it were many winds, all laced together, buffeting this way and that, making little swirls and eddies to tease at a body from all sides, but gently. And though it was not strong, it did seem to whistle as it went...

Merry and Pippin gave each other a look, then glanced at Sam, who was staring back along the wind's path, transfixed. "Sam?" Merry asked.

"It's from the Old Forest," he murmured. "The airs – they're from the Forest."

"The Old Forest?"

"Yes. It's the trees," Sam said, face shining with wonderment. "They're... singing!"  



	5. Beyond the Pale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 12: Innocence. 

 

  
_A single son was born to him,_  
born to a short life;  
and [my father] grows older without my attentions,  
since far from my homeland  
I remain at Troy to work evil  
against you and your sons 

  
\- _Iliad_

 

_Here is born the notion of a destiny under which executioners and their victims are similarly innocent: conquerors and conquered are brothers in the same misery, each a heartache to the other._

  
\- Simone Weil, _'Iliad,' or the Poem of Force_  


* * *

  
_March 15-16, 3019, T.A._

 

They had surprised each other some ways beyond the city's walls, and for a second, they had simply stared, stricken, unable to move.

Then someone had twitched and they had fallen on each other – except that the one was hurt, and the other was exhausted, and both were terrified, so that between them, they gave a few bruises, yelled a few insults that were lost on each other, and otherwise it was an inglorious tumble down the little rise, a helpless flailing of limbs punctuated by a few grunts. They had landed at the bottom, scuffled a little, and then worn out from their fear they had simply ceased, except for the weeping.

They had weapons, but these stayed sheathed – there was no point. The boy in the braids only had a knife in any case, and the boy in huntsman green and brown had a short sword and a bow; most of his arrows had spilled out on the way down. They lay there, one half atop the other, for hours, just breathing and feeling their bruises, 'til finally the eastern sky began to light.

Then, perhaps stirred by some animal instinct, the boy in green and brown rolled over and sat up stiffly. The other managed to turn onto his belly, crawl a few awkward, wounded paces, and then push himself up, bracing his back against the slope, grimacing at the dawn and his pain.

Eventually, they looked at each other through red-rimmed eyes, and saw themselves there, where the other was. The loathing that crawled over each face proclaimed them brothers, for all the one was Dúnadan and the other Harad's son. Brought here to this place to deal out death to each other, they had both largely failed in that duty and fervid, fevered minds imagined the tale of the other's shame, image of his own, and, each hating himself for running, hated that too familiar tale - and hated, too, the other for having not run soon enough to leave him in peace.

At the least, one of them could have done the other a favor and died, so as not now to look upon him.

But here they were, and the boy in Harad's braids had a knife, and the Dúnadan lad – of Anfalas, maybe Lebennin? – had a short sword, and here was this unlooked-for chance to fail a little less and drown the excruciating agony of cowardice in somebody's blood. To cover over the horror of remembered battlefields – to end one life, and so master one's own.

A hateful spasm passed over one face, and slid onto the other – but then the pain had got inside it, and made it a wince and a grimace, and a little, helpless whine escaped through clenched teeth, coughed up from somewhere down in the back of the throat. The boy in braids clutched his leg, and the boy in green and brown clutched his sword, staggering to his feet. He spit the dirt and the old blood from his mouth, and wiped at his nose, blade weaving unsteadily in his hand as he, cursing bitterly, fell then upon the other, grabbed his tunic, slammed him against the hillside, and shook and wept and swore.

And then of a sudden, he stopped and looked down upon his grey-faced enemy. His chest heaved, but he swore once more, and then threw the sword away, violently, and stood, tearing the waterskin from the other's belt.

"Water," he said hoarsely, and motioned towards the riverbank – the damnable river that had cost so many so much – and pointed to the earth. "Here." Then, glancing back at the wreck of a city – miles distant but still far too near, and never to be shelter to either of them - finished dully: "Then we run some more."


	6. Strange Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 15: answer the question: "Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Summary/answer: "I don't, but it doesn't matter - I do."

* * *

  
The Wise know the ways of what must be – if they are wise.

If they are wise, if they are wise.

Elrond walks beneath the pines, feels Imladris shape itself gladly about his will. Thirteen generations of unhandy boys have run here, oblivious to it – the order of things. Unhandy boys, awkward with the strangeness of their kind that does not fit into this world – given to another end than Arda.

And now he has another child, so many many sons his brother's heir – Estel. Elven word, but what Elf could bear the name? 'Tis not for Elves, but it belongs to those given to death.

For they are not meshed within the Song – not the mortal Speakers, so short-lived for so terribly, terribly free of things...

He can see the way the world is turning – its crossroads grow few. Some there are still, and one hovers like a sign over the boy. Where shall it lead, and which way shall he go? Or will there be a new way that he cannot see?

For the eyes of the elven Wise do not see what lies beyond the Song. There Men roam freely, wear themselves out of the world early. Yet from such travels, strange fruit they reap and give – like the fearful new light upon one way of the crossroad that hovers over his Arwen.

Elros had that same light about him, the day he turned to Elrond, said, "We were born for such adventures as change worlds. Come with me, brother," and held out his hand, all wreathed about with an unworldly glamour only an Elf could see.

Too late, the invitation – they had each already chosen.

_O my brother,_ Elrond prays, _what do the Wise among Men see, to guide us in these darkening days?_

As little as Elves, no doubt, alas, for the Wise see only what must be, if they are wise.

If they are wise, if they are wise.

The Wise see only what must be, and otherwise... trust that choice is gift.

* * *

  


The _Silmarillion_ tells us that from the elven perspective, Men (and presumably all mortal speakers) were given "strange gifts", namely freedom from fate, accompanied by its necessary ontological 'concomitant' gift, death.


	7. Irredeemable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 17: _A stereotype is a generalization, usually exaggerated or oversimplified and often offensive, used to describe a group. Think about a group that you identify with, either in your real life or in Tolkien's works, and write down at least three stereotypes that do or might exist about that group._

Summary: The orc who swallowed a sword and coughed up a soul.

 

(If the swearing offends you, blink when you find it.)

* * *

  
_March 15-16, 3019, T.A._

The sword-thrust split her armor and pierced a lung. Shrieking her agony, she fell to earth, and now like a blinded animal writhes amid the thousand trampling feet, uncaring of aught, heedless of anything but her pain. _Pain_. Pain like she's never known – and she's known some! Save that... there is a memory... memory of pain so old, so awful, she'd swooned and woken from it dazed, forgetful, and terrified of remembrance, maddened to murderous desperation with the _need_ of forgetfulness.

But it stayed in her – the memory of that pain stayed with her in every unsightly line of her and cramped, unlovely, miserable thought that made her His.

Soon, though she'll be nothing at all, not even His, and it is as if she's going back – going back there, going back _Then_ , to what was, to the _Before_ she was His, and _nononofuckshitshithellfiresHURTSdammitSAVEME - !_

She has no one to cry to, but cry she must, and cry she does – of this and all the pain that she has ever brought or borne within this world, wailing weakly, ever more weakly, impotent of everything. For that bloody sword has her pinned to herself like a bull on its own horns! She falls back into herself, suffocatingly, as the sky goes crimson –

_\- like her blood. Like the fire that seared her flesh. Like the long-ago tears she lost._

_Red, red, the world ran red with abandonment...! –_

There's blood in her eyes and a dampness on her cheeks – strange salty sting. And she's still screaming, _shit_ she's still screaming, she can't stop – can't stop, because something's coming out, _fuck, something's coming... out... of... me – !_

A thin, ululating, coppery moan that has but three raw-throated notes to rub against each other, but there they are – the last little music in her that He never touched, surrendered up to the air, and then she's gone.

The sun sets. The moon rises. Faceless men walk the battlefields by the light of hungry bonfires. But they pass her over. They do not see her, nor She who lies curled at her back, long arms – bloodied by sharp-edged armor twisting in them – fast about her and clear grey tears glistening on Her cheeks.

But when the moon is high, and the stars are brightest, then She takes one poor stiff-gloved hand in Hers and stands, draws up a soul that rises like a babe from the grime and horror of its birthing. Ghostly they glimmer unseen in the night, and the One touches the other's cheek; then the west wind whistles, sweeps them up, and like that, they are gone.

* * *

  


A/N: I violated the prompt somewhat. I don't identify with this group, but I expect few would, in fact. There's a reason Tolkien came so close himself to writing them off as irredeemable, because they are so corrupt, treacherous, and vicious, and I'm sure anyone in Gondor, Rohan, or any of the rest of the human or elven world would not have been quite so concerned with the theological niceties Tolkien as the author was. The only good orc in their eyes would be a dead one. And I'm not saying this one was good, just following up on Tolkien's hesitation.


	8. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 19 prompt: three pieces of "wisdom" for the next generation.

Summary: see title.

* * *

  
"Be ever mindful," his father would say. "The Enemy's snares are many."

"Be patient," his mother had said. "Haste so often ends badly."

"Be strong," advised his brother, who was entirely too young to counsel but cared not where Faramir was concerned. "War is coming."

The old man looked upon the anxious, frowning boy with his books and his head full of stories and heart full of cares, and a pair of shoulders that would some sad day stiffen and broaden under years and toil under a sword's edge, and he laughed.

"Lad," Mithrandir said kindly, "it does you no harm to listen to your elders, for 'tis all well-said, and right. But _you_ shan't hear it rightly, unless you learn to listen well – there is a trick to it, you see." Leaning on his staff, he hunched down, and looked the seven year-old straight from eye to eye.

"Be fearless," he said. "See to _that_ " – a gnarled pair of fingers against a skinny breastbone, right over the boy's heart – "and the rest will come, and you'll laugh the better, too, and more often."


	9. The Horn of the Kine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 21 prompt: Describe a big storm from your memory and place it in Tolkien's world.

 

When I moved to Illinois, I had some anxious moments when the spring storms hit, since I'd never been anywhere near tornado country before. To date, I have had a near-miss with two tornadoes: the first in 2006, I think it was, when a spray of hail suddenly hit the glass front window of the cafe I was in, and the sky went dark; and last year, when I almost failed to realize that the funny-sounding noise outside was actually the tornado siren going off. The first tornado landed maybe a hundred yards out in Lake Michigan after passing right over the university; the second never made it to Chicago, but I spent a terrified half an hour hiding in the basement, just to be on the safe side, since I had neither a radio nor working internet at the time.

So I've never really experienced a tornado that was a serious threat. I hope never to do so, but I imagine that if I were to, it might feel something like this...

 

Katzilla, this one's for you. 

* * *

  
The patrol had been edgy all day.

Éomer had wakened that morn to the scent of damp grass and found himself and his blankets beaded with dew. He had shaken his blankets out, shaken himself not unlike a dog, and set about getting his gear in order. Torald had handed him breakfast – bread and a strip of jerky and what remained of the nettle stew the man had made last night – and said: "Eat up, lad. There's weather coming on fit to raise the Golden Roof, or I'm no plainsman!"

Torald was an older man, close to forty years, and he had ridden for Gefling company in the Westmark's _éored_ for more than twenty of them. Éomer, who at his uncle's command had come to foster for a season at Helm's Deep, had seen all there was to Gefling a week ago, riding patrol. It was not a town, nor even a village, but a stretch of plainsland in the very heart of Westemnet, some four days' ride northeast of Helm's Deep.

As in so much of Rohan, the Westemnet herders kept to the old ways – there were no masons among them, but folk rode together over the land, men and women both. Driving their horses and sheep, they hunted and trapped, fished from the rivers, traded with the few little towns, and by tradition made light of service in a Marshal's _éored._

"Eh, just like home, but the view from behind's not near as good," they would jest, and goad the boys from the city who were good for a day's ride or maybe two, but began to weary on the third. "Practice, lads! Your wives expect it!"

Nor did the fact that the nephew of the King of the Mark was a city-dweller mean aught to them. They'd been as merciless with him as with any other 'soft-seat'. Éomer had endured the heckling, gritting his teeth through the saddle-sore days, and soon enough had been rewarded for his patience. The long hours each day in the saddle had worked their way into his back and legs, and hardened them, shaped them to the labor. His plainsland brethren had noted this, and that he'd a tongue of his own to tease with of late, and this had apparently endeared him to them, made him someone in their eyes.

Torald had been among the first to warm to him, likely because he could, at his age – he'd naught to prove. Not when even the captain of the patrol, Hæthing, would come seeking his counsel. Éomer had, therefore, glanced up at the sky – which seemed clear enough – and asked, "What sort of weather?"

"The worst sort, lad. 'May she coom a-flowing in, a river in the sky,'" he had said, gazing out southwest. He'd sniffed the air, and shaken his head. "Storm season. Just you wait, lad – today or tomorrow or next week, we'll see one," he'd said, the very picture of surety. The dawnlight had gleamed fiendishly in his eyes when he'd glanced back at Éomer, and, grinning a bearsark's manic grin, he'd promised: "Then we'll have some _real_ fun."

Éomer had considered this, and the warning note beneath the disturbing grin, and come to his own conclusions. And since he had learned early in his training that trials were best faced on a full stomach, he'd wisely settled himself on his saddle and set to work on breakfast with a will.

 

Not an hour later, the patrol of thirty men were on their way, strung out two-by-two in file behind Captain Hæthing and his lieutenant, Falc. Just ere they had departed, the captain had called Torald and another Gefling man to him, and the three of them and Falc had stood some little distance from the men and spoken together. Éomer had not been near enough to overhear, but Hæthing had turned them northeast towards the Entwash.

"There's a camp up this way," said Éomer's partner in the line, Bywulf. A year or two Éomer's senior, he was not a Gefling man, but hailed from another stretch of plainsland pasture much like it. "We came there twice, when I was young."

"Is that why the captain turned us?"

Bywulf shrugged. "Maybe. They're our nearest duty. But the river is a good place to be in May anyway."

The day had drifted by in a lovely, warm haze, and if the air had been a bit heavy, nothing had seemed to come of it. A line of thunderheads piled up to the west, and dropped their rain on the plains there, and as the day lengthened, it kept pace with them, moving north on the same tailwind that blew through their lines. Nevertheless, Torald and the other plainsmen among them were wary, rising often in their stirrups to look back at it.

"Have you seen one?" Éomer asked Bywulf at one point. "One of the kine-horn storms?"

"Everyone has who lives on the grasslands."

"Will one come?"

Bywulf shrugged, and glanced over his shoulder at the storm. "Could happen. Why? You want to see one?"

Éomer just shrugged.

"You don't see them in Edoras, I guess."

"We hear of them," Éomer replied, "but there are no songs of one ever coming to the city. Nor to Aldburg."

"Eh. No Dunlendings, no kine-horners." Bywulf shook his head wistfully. "Must be nice!"

 

The camp was still some miles away, and the sun had sunk behind the clouds, when suddenly, the winds changed. Instead of blowing from due south, they turned now a quarter east. Murmuring arose, and at the head of the column, a pair of riders broke away – Falc and Torald, turning their horses northwest. They galloped a short distance, then reined in and sat their mounts, staring into the storm that was sweeping towards them, and which seemed, to Éomer's inexpert eyes, to be swelling. Over the plains its shadow crawled with surprising swiftness; Éomer could see the rain curtain beneath it, and little flashes of lightning. In the not so distant distance, he could hear thunder crack.

"That's not good," Bywulf said, sounding worried as he eyed the rising stormwall. His horse snorted, ears twitching nervously, and the gelding minced a bit. Éomer's Kiting, catching the other's fear, nickered and tossed his head, eyes rolling white. Éomer hushed him and stroked his neck soothingly, but only moments later, he went stiff as his horse, as a warning horn-call rang out. Wide-eyed, he glanced up in time to see Falc and Torald dashing back to the line, Falc with his hand held high overhead, signaling the patrol to change course.

Beside him, Bywulf swore. "That's _really_ not good," the lad muttered. Then: "Let's go!"

The river was but a mile away, and they made it ahead of the storm. When they reached the embankment, which sloped briefly but sharply down towards the water, Hæthing signaled everyone to halt and dismount.

"Keep your pack, but leave the tack on," he ordered, walking the line of his Riders. "Then get your horses to south of us. " He pointed to a spot right on the edge of the river. "Do it now!"

"Why there?" Éomer asked, though he hurriedly obeyed.

"South, because you don't want to risk them trampling you if they decide to try to take the ridge down to the water. And you want them to have a chance," Bywulf replied grimly.

"Here, lads." Torald appeared just then, his own horse on one arm and the captain's on the other's. "Give me your lines. Bywulf, take Éomer with you, eh? You know what to do."

"Aye, sir," Bywulf replied, then gave Éomer a clap on the shoulder as he reluctantly gave Kiting into Torald's hands. "Come on."

Bywulf led him down the embankment, then turned north, heading upstream. Eyes fixed on the embankment rising above them, he frowned as he went. Éomer, following his gaze, could see the sky darkening, turning a strange, sickly green, the likes of which he had never seen before...

"Here," Bywulf tugged him to a halt, and then down to sit huddled beside him. "Time comes, try to keep your cloak on, or at least keep the hood cast up about your face," he advised, shouting to be heard over the approaching storm. "And keep your gauntlets on, too." Éomer nodded, but said nothing, watching men settle about him all in a line, with their backs to the embankment, save Torald and the captain. Torald was standing atop the rise still, his cloak and hair streaming out in the howling wind, staring intently west; Éomer could not see where the captain had gone.

To south, he could hear the horses whinnying, and their terror was infectious. His own heart was pounding, and of a sudden, he felt smaller than he had ever felt – like a fly on the face of the world. He swallowed hard, glancing at Bywulf, who had his eyes closed. But for his pallor, might have seemed relaxed, sitting back against the slope, hands dangling slack between upraised knees.

Éomer bit his lip, then turned sharply south once more, to stare at the figure of Torald still standing above them, and he blinked in surprise: for the Rider held his hands raised to heaven like a bard, as if calling on the monster brooding in this storm. Shadow lay upon his face, and rain began to fall down – fat drops and few at first, but swiftly becoming a sheet of rain. Thunder sounded – one long, grinding rumble that, rather than ceasing, seemed but to rise in volume, like some perverse, unending echo. Lightning split the sky, dazzling his eyes, and every hair he had, he felt, was standing on end. When Éomer felt something touch his hand, he jumped.

But it was only Bywulf, who slid onto his belly, and motioned urgently for Éomer to join him. Éomer did, and tucked a hand over his head, as he saw others doing. But Bywulf reached for Éomer's free hand and slid his fingers between Éomer's, locking grips. The young Rider managed a sickly grin when Éomer looked at him; then, wriggling closer so that they lay now cheek to cheek, Bywulf shouted over the storm into Éomer's ear:

" _Do you know the storm song?_ "

Éomer did not bother with words – he simply shook his head, felt Bywulf press his hand in response. But he, too, said nothing.

For the swirling wind was screaming, and Éomer could have sworn there was an army of orcish drummers just over the ridge – orcs, or mayhap a herd of stampeding horses. The sky went utterly dark, save for the numbing flashes of light that made his skin tingle. His ears wanted to stop; he opened his already dry mouth, and struggled against the sense that he couldn't breathe fast enough to pull air into his lungs, that the air actually drew the breath straight out of him. Indeed, as he lay there, he was struck with the curious, gut-wrenching feeling that if he were to put a hand up and touch that current of air streaming over the lip of the rise, he'd be swept away, like a leaf in a flood.

The sound built, and the winds and the terror with it; some part of his mind was convinced that if they lived through this, he and Bywulf would come away with broken fingers, so tightly did they grip. And he could hear Bywulf saying something – shouting-singing, but the wind whistled so, he caught only a few words before they were ripped away and lost. For his part, Éomer shut his eyes, mind emptying of everything but the sheer sound that filled him, got inside his skin and down in his bones and shook him 'til he though he must surely shatter. He tried to swallow, and felt grit all the way down the back of his throat.

It could have lasted hours or a few minutes so far as Éomer's overwhelmed senses were concerned, but at a certain point, he realized the sound had lessened – that the air was a little less violent, the rain less stinging, the thunder more distant.

Cautiously, Éomer cracked his eyes open and lifted his head just a little. A little north of them, and heading rapidly east was a ribbon of twisting cloud – a kine's horn indeed! – dust and rain swirling all about its earthside tip. Dust there was too, and earthy clods, and what looked like bits of bushes and a harvest's worth of long grass lying scattered all about. Éomer pulled straw from his hair, staring at it in some surprise.

Across from him, Bywulf stirred, pushing himself up on an elbow. He, too, glanced about, taking in the storm's leavings. He let out the breath he'd been holding, then winced, coughed, and turned his head to spit dirt indelicately.

A dim shadow fell over them then, and Éomer glanced up to see Torald standing there. The old Rider's hair was all out of its braids, and he had a coating of dust, as well, but he grinned and held out a hand to Éomer, who took it and was pulled to his feet, Bywulf scrambling up hastily as well. Torald eyed the pair of them, then his eyes dropped between them, as he quipped:

"You'd think you were handfasted."

The two young Riders realized then that they still had each other in a death grip. A bit sheepishly, they released each other, Éomer flexing stiff fingers. All about them, other Riders were climbing to their feet, some more steadily than others. Torald grunted, eyes narrowing. "Looks as though we've a few wounded – blasted kine-horns drop more than just dirt and rain!"

"Where's the captain?" Éomer asked.

"Off tracking the horses – he ought to be back soon. We don't train them to return and follow us for naught!" Torald assured him. Then he cocked his head, gazing at the two young men, and he reached and on each of their shoulders laid a firm hand. "You're all right, then, are you lads?"

Bywulf glanced at Éomer, who gazed back at Bywulf, and then nodded. "Aye sir," he replied. "I think we are."

"Good. Because once we have the horses back, and we've got ourselves sorted out, Falc says you'll be riding with him to see how the camp fared. Like as not, they'll need help getting their herds back, and 'twill be quicker for us to start out than it will for them. So look lively – storm season's only just begun!"

With that, Torald departed, leaving them to collect themselves. Bywulf looked after him a long moment, then glanced sideways at Éomer. "So now you've seen one," he said, and there was a question lurking.

Éomer shook his head, and squeezed the other's shoulder. "So I have," said he, and nodded at a pair of Riders, one of whom sat still upon the ground, cradling one arm. "But come – 'twill be a long season of them, it seems, and we have work to do."

* * *

  


I don't know if this would actually work as a storm-survival strategy for a patrolling _éored_ , but between tips for humans and the following site, I'm hoping it would. Hey, at least I didn't stick them under an overpass!

http://www.saveyourhorse.com/weather.html

Also, to get a sense for what Éomer might have experienced, I listened to this on high volume. It is absolutely eerie and incredible that the tape survived: <a href="http://www.xeniatornado.com/audio.htm">[recording of the sound of the approach of the Xenia Tornado of 1974, as caught on a tapedeck, initially.</a>](http://www.xeniatornado.com/audio.htm)


	10. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 23: sacrifice

Summary: Duty can leave you feeling so very exposed...

Tongue in cheek interpretation of the prompt, obviously!

 

"We attacked the Corsair vessel straight on. I was over the rail first, and Andra was right at my side. It was the most fiercely fought action I had ever been in, and a great many of my men fell. Have you ever seen the scar on Andra's leg?"

"No sir. He's always very particular about taking his baths and such in private."

"The Haradrim are more body modest than we are."

\-- Imrahil and Brand, [Passages](http://www.tolkienfanfiction.com/Story_Read_Head.php?STid=723), chapter 8

* * *

  
A night above Dol Amroth's docks was usually a raucous affair, particularly when _The Swan's Cove_ saw an invasion of landsmen. Things got lively then, though it was more drink and high spirits and a proud rivalry at back of it all, rather than the truly bitter, deep feuds that flourished in some places. Andrahar had been quick to learn the names of those taverns, and he would never have allowed Imrahil to set foot in a single one of them, even if he had to knock the Heir out himself and carry him to safe ground to save him from himself.

But _The Swan's Cove_ was acceptable, though even so, Andrahar as a rule nursed his cups like a miser kept his coins – Imrahil could drink himself drunk if he liked, but one of them had to be sober for the walk home, to keep any pickpockets or other mischief away.

Tonight, however, Andrahar stared at the whiskey Imrahil had ordered and felt dreadfully tempted.

Even worse, however, was the humiliation of being saved from himself by Imrahil, of all people, who was for once being very temperate with his drinking – he'd been savoring those two fingers of the pungent stuff for the last two hours – and had informed Andrahar he was permitted one ale and no more than one shot of whatever Imrahil decided upon.

"You're not getting out of this," his young lord had declared that afternoon, with cheerful malice. "Not even if I have to forego some of the best whiskey to be had outside grandfather's cellar."

Andrahar had bridled and said a few choice words about the sacredness of duty and honor, and then headed off for a punishing round of sparring to take his mind off matters. And if someone had managed to take him down so hard he couldn't be trusted with tomorrow's task, well, he wouldn't precisely have been disappointed, so long as the defeat (and the injury) had been earned.

Unfortunately, he had been thwarted by his own ability: the punishment had mostly accrued to his sparring partners, and he had run out of them before he'd wearied enough to make mistakes – survival instinct was a powerful force among even swordsmen, after all.

So here he was, in perfectly fine fighting condition, and tomorrow was staring him in the face. As was his lord, who was clearly enjoying himself far too much. Pity, he thought, that Imrahil hadn't followed him down to the practice grounds, as that might have solved two problems at once...

"Honestly, Andra," Imrahil said just then, taking a minute, appreciative sip of the whiskey, rolling it about his mouth before he continued. "I don't know why you're so very set against this. Harad has a fine naval tradition – "

" _Umbar_ breeds Corsairs, who harry these coasts and may well see you to an early end, Imri," he cut in.

Imrahil, undeterred by this correction and reminder, continued as if he had not spoken: " – a _fine_ naval tradition, and where there are navies, there are sea dogs. And where there are sea dogs, there are folk who _swim_." He paused slightly, to let that point sink in, before concluding: "Haradrim do not spontaneously dissolve when plunged into the sea, therefore, and many do not even drown."

"I am not one of that many."

"I've seen you take a bath, you don't dissolve." Andrahar growled; Imrahil just tipped his head back and laughed. Andrahar just glared.

"You're too easy, you know," Imrahil said, when he'd regained himself somewhat.

"I am so very glad that you are enjoying this."

"You would, too, were you in this chair."

"I could have you out of it handily enough," he offered, and there was that in his tone that said he was only half-joking.

"Mm." The prince eyed his dearest friend and devoted guardian a moment. "I do not doubt you could," he conceded, then set his glass down firmly and leaned forward a bit on his elbows, hands clasped. "All right," he said, suddenly serious. "What is it truly, Andra? No one wishes to drown, 'tis true, but the whole point of learning to swim is so you won't. So that can't be the problem."

"The sea is wet and cold."

"Wet, yes, cold, not necessarily. Certainly not at this time of year, and as close to the shore as we'll be. Besides," Imrahil said, brushing the usual list of the sea's sins aside, "snow is wet and cold, yet you will go out in that."

"Because I must. This is no different," Andrahar said shortly, and took a drink, if only to spare himself the look Imrahil was giving him. Not that the tactic seemed to work. Imrahil's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head at his friend. "My lord?"

"I do believe," Imrahil replied mildly, after a considering moment, "that you're lying to me." He shook his head, and said, with apparently genuine amazement: "Apparently it takes an ocean!"

Andrahar grimaced, fought the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Imri..."

"No, I want to hear this," Imrahil forestalled him. "You've never really given me an answer as to why the thought of swimming puts the wind up your back so. 'We don't swim' isn't a reason; it isn't even true. So what is it?" And when Andrahar only gazed fixedly down at the tabletop and stubbornly said nothing, he wheedled, "Come on, Andra. Do you not like fish?"

"Not particularly."

"Very well. But they are not the problem, I do not think. Afraid of lurking sea monsters?" This earned him a disdainful glare, to which Imrahil simply shrugged. "Seasickness?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Well, you did not feel nauseated when we sailed here from Umbar, so I think we may safely say that is not the problem," Imrahil reasoned. He considered Andrahar a long moment, and something like concern slid over his face. "Andra," the young prince said, hesitantly, "you never... I mean, this isn't because of something that... happened... to you, is it?"

As oblique as that was, Andrahar grasped the point immediately. "No," he said quickly.

"You're certain?" Imrahil pressed, seeming unconvinced, which was rather disconcerting. "You would tell me, if it were so?"

"Yes." And when Imrahil still watched him worriedly, he sighed. "I do not hate the sea for the sailors who hired me," he said in a low voice, and then on impulse, seeing that Imrahil seemed yet to waver, he laid his right hand upon the table, turning his hand up in offer to the other. "I swear this is the truth, Imrahil."

That seemed, finally, to relieve the worry so unexpectedly conceived, and Imrahil smiled with relief, reaching to clasp his hand, pressing it firmly. "Thank you," he said. "I am sorry, Andra, I just... I don't understand. It's just water!"

Andrahar sighed, lowering his eyes once more, and silently cursed the fact that he couldn't deny Imrahil anything – not when he said such things and looked at him like that! "It is not the water," he finally admitted.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I am not afraid of the water."

"Then of what, if not that?"

"It isn't fear."

At this, Imrahil blinked, surprised. "Not fear?" he repeated. Andrahar shook his head, and the Heir's brow knit in puzzlement. "Then what is it?"

"Swimming... it is unseemly."

Imrahil was clearly taken aback. "Unseemly?" he repeated, blankly. "Why?"

Andrahar just stared at him, not willing to say it – not when Imrahil really ought to be to figure it out himself. The Heir frowned, perplexedly, considering the complaint and his friend's expression, and everything he knew of Harad, then put two and two together and came up with... " _Oh._ " A beat, then: "But you take more off in the baths, Andra!"

" _You_ take off more in the baths and don't bother to hide it," Andrahar corrected him, somewhat testily. " _I_ have some consideration for you, even if the lot of you are shameless!"

Which they were, and Andrahar had managed for two years to bite his tongue and say nothing, so as not to put up with more abuse than he already endured from the other esquires. But it was hard to have to walk each day into a room full of men who hadn't a scrap of modesty – or clothing – about each other when it came to bath houses! And they had the gall to call Haradrim perverse! At least Haradrim, he always thought, fulminatingly, just because of their 'perversity,' knew how to keep themselves decently concealed with towels while still attending to their baths, and Andrahar was scrupulous about maintaining such habits, for the sake of his own sensibilities as much as prudence.

The very thought, therefore, of stripping down to his underdrawers in public, on a beach, where, burn him and the Giver's bones, Dol Amroth's pearl-divers and rock fishers were like to be – _no_. It was unseemly. It was _uncivilized_! To make matters worse, for reasons he could not fathom, many of the pearl-divers were women or girls – all of the lower classes, obviously – and they were very nearly as shameless as any of the lads. Andrahar could tolerate many things, so he told himself, and so long as he was not required to participate in the mass, shameless perversity that was swimming, he could even tolerate sharing a beach with skinny little lasses and their mothers, all of them in what he assumed were their undershifts, diving and swimming and running about as if there were no one to see them.

But he was absolutely not going to join in.

Not unless he absolutely _had_ to.

Sadly, it looked as though he were absolutely going to have to. Imrahil had cajoled and pleaded to no avail for nearly a month, but in the end, he knew how to snare his friend. All he'd had to do was appeal to Andrahar's sense of duty.

"What if I were to go to sea, Andra? You would come with me, would you not?" Imrahil had asked.

"If you were to go to sea, then I would come, of course," Andrahar had answered.

"But what would you do if you could not swim and were to fall overboard?"

"Drown, I expect," had been his response.

"Exactly," Imrahil had exclaimed. Then, with his most earnest look – for which Andrahar cordially loathed him – and tone, had said: "Andra, you are my oath-bound man, and I know you would follow me for that bond, but would you have me fail in my own oath to you? Should not a lord care for his people, and especially those whom he loves? But how can I do that if you will not let me teach you how to save yourself from the sea? I should have to leave you ashore."

And so he'd been netted, like one of the idiot fish, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it – except possibly snatch the bottle and down enough to make himself sick tomorrow. Which would only put off the misery for another day, of course, but that would be one more day...

But no, no, he was going to do this and get it over with. Duty was duty, and sacrifices had to be made, though he promised himself that Imrahil was going to suffer on the practice grounds for every blasted day he had to spend in the cursedly elvish waters. Yes, that was only fair – and friendly in the way of serving his lord's best interests, that, too...

Just then, Imrahil smiled and shook his head fondly. "All this fuss over the sea and a little swimming because it is 'unseemly!'" he chortled. "But happily, you need not fear. Modesty shall be safe, I promise."

"Oh?" Andrahar asked suspiciously, for the mischievous gleam in his lord's eyes was not at all reassuring.

"Oh yes. For you see, on ship, one is most likely to fall into the water during a battle or else when there is a storm – no one will insist upon you taking a swim otherwise. But I rather doubt that either storm or pirate shall pause to let you disrobe first before flinging you into the sea. So you're going to have to learn to swim with all that on, though it will rather make matters more difficult."

"By 'all that', you mean full harness?"

Imrahil nodded. "Chain mail and all. Never fear, we'll work our way up to that, but you're not going in with less on than you have now."

"You promise?"

"By the oath that binds us," Imrahil said solemnly, though that gleam belied the gravity of the words. Still, Imrahil's word was inviolate, and Andrahar felt a rather crooked grin spread across his face. "Of course," the young prince added, "you're also going to have to learn how to fall off a ship's deck with all of it on, which means I'm going to have to toss you overboard so you can practice, but..."

Imrahil trailed off, and smiled beatifically. Andrahar shook his head, and finished off his ale in a long swallow, then pushed pushed the tankard towards his friend, who caught it, examined its depths a moment, then obligingly poured two fingers of whiskey into the bottom and handed it back. Andrahar tossed that off, too, and grimaced. "The _kheliss_ here is better."

"Well, now we know. And you're done, so," Imrahil rose, and Andrahar swiftly followed suit. They left a few coins on the table for the serving lad, and settled their cloaks round their shoulders. In companionable silence, they walked the long way back up to the keep, and once there, headed straight for the Fledglings' Wing. Andrahar left Imrahil before his door, and continued on up to his own quarters. But ere he had reached them, Imrahil called after him:

"Andra." He paused, glancing back over his shoulder to find Imrahil hanging off the bevel of his door, grinning evilly. "Docks tomorrow – be there early, for unless I miss my mark, we've got quite a bit of work to do."

Andrahar shook his head at the other's enthusiasm, and Imrahil chuckled once more. "Good night, Andra," he said, then.

"Good night, my lord. And Imri," he called softly down the hall. Imrahil, who had just gone within, stuck his head back out, brows lifted questioningly. "You have my thanks for... arranging... matters."

Imrahil blinked at him, but then that lovely slow smile spread over his face. "My pleasure," he replied. "Good night!"


	11. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 24 prompt: favorite non-Tolkien quotation

Favorite quotations and sources are subject to change, but I wrote this based on Tom Waits ["LowDown"](http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/t/tom_waits/lowdown.html), specifically this line:

"She's a big, red flag in a mean bull-pen." 

* * *

  
She's on that dais every morning, every evening – a bright, white flame in the dark narrows of the hall. She will turn her head, and every eye is drawn in a heartbeat to that flash of gold. _His_ eyes, too, as he sits beneath her on the stair, and Háma feels dirtied to see it – for that one looks not only to see her hair, or her face.

She feels it, the Lady Éowyn. Háma knows. She walks out onto the practice grounds each day, when the sun is highest, to wash that unwanted look off in sweat and hurt – hers or whatever young hothead thinks to challenge. And they do challenge – she gets a ring of lads around her every time. They keep the prying eyes blind for a little while at least.

Let the lads look, he always thinks, but sends men wiser, older, hardier to face her, or takes her himself. She does not deserve the boys, after all, and Háma finds he does not quite trust her not to wound when at last she can.

But he says nothing of that, either – she's not one of his lads, after all, and something in him weighs heavy against the urge to tame that fury, and its quickness that takes no prisoners.

For she will have to stand upon that dais by day's end, and all the next morn, and in between there are dim halls and shadows – black enough, perhaps, to lose her shine in, and then Meduseld will go dark.

Someone, he thinks, should put those snake-eyes out. Just put them out, quiet in the dark. But he cannot – they cannot. They're a kingdom of moles, with one bright flame to dazzle them, and beyond that no one can see his way… to anything.  



	12. Become What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 29: show characters reacting to false accusations.

Summary: Rangering is sometimes the art of "positing your own presuppositions..."

* * *

  
The green-cloaked men sit half-slumped at their table, and when Nella brings their supper, one squints at her from the depths of his hood out of a blackened eye. Taken aback, her gaze lands on the hands of the other – swollen, scraped knuckles, sure sign of a fistfight, and her nose wrinkles at the scent of alcohol. Frowning, she slides a plate before each, but refuses their ale order.

"You've had enough, and Barley won't have trouble in his house," she informs them. Shaking her head, she departs. "Disgraceful!"

One of the cloaked men sighs. "And I _needed_ that drink," Halbarad says mournfully.

"I told you that these - " Aragorn raises a battered hand by way of illustration " - could wait 'til the _Pony_. You need not have poured half the flask on them immediately."

"Orc's teeth will fester any wound," his lieutenant counters.

"Give your foes less to grin about, and I shan't risk such."

"He was grinning in anticipation of _you_ ; I saved your skin!" Halbarad protests.

"With your face, yes – a very sound tactic, cousin." Halbarad narrows his (good) eye, contemplating his revenge, when his tablemate's foot nudges his.

"No trouble under Barliman's roof," his Chieftain says sternly. Then: "Tomorrow – in the yard. Win, and I'll buy your beer."

"How many rounds?"

"How many were you thinking?"

Halbarad gives a scornful harrumph. "Enough to earn our reputation of tonight, of course!"

Aragorn considers. Late October, with the cold coming on, and the last of a band of tenacious orcs dealt with...

Everyone needs relief, he knows, and sometimes... sometimes one needs to coincide with the mask for a little while. So:

"Deal!"


	13. In a Handful of Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 31: you wake up as a citizen of M-e and have a choice: yesterday or tomorrow?

  


* * *

  
Yesterday, says the rage that would not spare a drop of treelight for a new day.

Yesterday, sings the sevenfold castrati chorus, that each day, for an Age, cuts a little more of life's weave down to one fatal thread.

Yesterday, recalls the miserable Night, that would swallow its own tail so as not to be born.

Yesterday, dream retentive elven hands that cast their Rings.

Yesterday, claims pride in its poverty, that has but torch and dagger left to give.

Tomorrow, demands love that heeds no loveless limit, not even death.

Tomorrow, trusts faith, and shakes diamonds from the soles of its shoes.

Tomorrow, prays repentance, and gladdens killing fields with a princely gift.

Tomorrow, vows loyalty that dares a door and dies raising a dawn.

Tomorrow, cries pity providential, for Shire and its Shadow, and all the creatures of the world, who know not what they do...

* * *

**Final notes and such to stories**

Chapter 2:  
[All She Wants To Do Is Dance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KtMPZUMtAQ) \- by Don Henley

Chapters 3, 6, and 11: As always, Andrahar belongs to Isabeau, but thank you for allowing me to play in your sandbox!

Chapter 13: is caught between Aristotle and Hegel in its title and summary, respectively.

Chapter 14: Line 30 of [The Waste Land](http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html) by T.S. Eliot.

"Diamonds on the soles of his shoes" - image by Tolkien, [lyric by Paul Simon](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OafqYNCzq5U&feature=related).


	14. Fair-weather Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 14: favorite season.

Summary: What are friends for, if not to share a beautiful day? An unusually sunny tale for everyone's favorite Dol Amroth immigrant. Story in the Best-loved Sons universe.

* * *

  
_Dol Amroth, 2072, T.A._

The last few weeks had been stormy – damp and cool, and the winds from the sea were treacherous. No matter what measures one took to keep the rain out, the wet found its way in beneath the layers of wool and leather. It would have been in some ways more bearable simply to be soaked and have done with it, but the perpetual, deceptive dryness that turned out, upon movement, to be damp and _cold_ \- what Gondorrim called ' _clammy_ ' – Andrahar was offended by it, frankly. It just _was not proper._

It was, he supposed, better than _winter_ – in Andrahar's world, water _did not freeze._ The very thought chilled him, and he habitually shoved the memory of that horror away with an internal shudder. Spring was definitely much preferable.

But the air was changing – the storms had been less cold of late, and he knew now, from two years of Dol Amroth's seasons, that they would grow more violent and warmer, but also less frequent. Already, there had been much less rain this week than last, and today he could feel it – heat! A proper sun in the sky, shedding proper light and real warmth at long last! An end to feeling forever cold and numbed! A slow, white grin split his normally somber countenance, as Andrahar, fresh out of a morning's swordwork this rest day, stood at the edge of the yard and looked up at the tower and the parapets looming at the very crest of the hill, gleaming fit to blind a body in the mid-morning sun.

He had learned a word of Imrahil recently – 'carefree.' Actually, he had learned the word because someone had said it _of_ Imrahil, but regardless, Andrahar had rolled it about his mind and mouth, thinking it over. An unfamiliar notion, and Andrahar had never thought to feel it himself, but faced with a beautiful, warm, finally, properly summer's day – the very first of the year – he thought that this must be what 'carefree' felt like…

"Well, it looks as though you've got in a good morning's work," said a familiar voice, and then Imrahil's hand landed on his shoulder. The young prince, never one to stir earlier than necessary on a rest day, was neat as a pin, and grinning as well, his eyes alight as he surveyed the day, breathing in deeply and sighing contentedly.

"Summer at last," he declared, and then grinned the broader, squeezing Andrahar's shoulder, before releasing him to give him a hearty clap on the back, as he said blithely, "Well that settles it. Come on. We're going swimming."

And like that, any sense of carefreeness vanished. Andrahar shut his eyes and blanched.


	15. River of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen stories for Back To Middle-earth Month 2009. Prompts and individual summaries listed at the head of each chapter.

Day 23 prompt: [I]magine that your character bumps into a genie (or a Middle-earth variation of it) and she offers to grant your character three wishes. What are the wishes and why would he and she wish for them?

 

I ended up writing the "genie" as my character, but genies have wishes, too, and their own ways of granting them, which leads to the warning summary for all comers:  


 

Summary: Be careful what you wish for...

* * *

  
She lies in her curves across the road, across the land; beneath the trees of Mirkwood that darken ever she sighs – a cold, damp thrill.

In other lands, her sisters run and babble their laughter, roar their rages and joys as they plunge down their channels to batter the stones and their shores alike. They burble coyly in little pools, wink dappled-dazzling shade that obscures their depths, and they spread themselves into welcoming shallows.

But she is a simple soul. No coquette, she, to tease and promise what she cannot give. And she does but wish to give.

She can give them their dreams – relieve them of the cares and woes they bear. She blackens with the burden of such – they float upon her surface like slick of oil or a bruise. But she draws her dreamers down, rests them gentle in her clear bosom, pours herself inside to wash them clean 'til they are pure – pure, pure, pure as they were once in the womb, when they lived in their mothers' waters.

_Dream, dream_ , she chants, and one by one, they fall quiet, and for a little while, they have what most they want – to forget. Sleep she gives to let their dreams fly free, and she will take the rest.

It is what they wish. What she can give. And later, over loving years, she polishes the bones, and holds them deep and warm in the silty depths of her soul to cherish them, singing softly to them:

_O shadow-slip O care a-woe_  
Come seek me now by sorrow banks  
Come lie with me, come love me low  
My love lies down thy dreamy deeps

Hush na hush na hush na sweet!  
Flow, flow, flow, flow with me  
Forget forget forget na sweet!  
Forget-a-way with me flow!

* * *

  


  
**Author's Notes** : So a chapter, a song, and a poem walk into a bar...

The perspective here is that of the Enchanted River in Mirkwood. In _The Hobbit,_ Beorn describes it as dark and dangerous, and warns the Dwarves and Bilbo against it as he hears it is enchanted.

When the party discovers it flowing across the road, they cross by boat, but Bombur accidentally falls in. He falls into a deep sleep during which he dreams of wonderful food.

Somehow, this got crossed in my mind with Goldberry as the River Daughter dragging Tom into her waters *cough* and "[Sweet Thames flow softly](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7voBdWFvnw)". What flowed out of this mess was an innocent elemental murderess.

Yeah. 


End file.
